


Kaleidoscope

by GhostCwtch



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dark, Depression, Implied Relationships, M/M, PTSD, Post CATWS, Steve is not dealing well with modern times, Steve's Pov, depressed thought process, time line not specified
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 22:50:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5182583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostCwtch/pseuds/GhostCwtch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve breathes in and out in the night and the light catches in the shadows of Bucky's bare back. </p><p>There are things real and unreal in this world he has found himself in, and all of them are drowning him every night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kaleidoscope

Steve breathes in and out in the night and the light catches in the shadows of Bucky's bare back. For a moment, his dreams are all come to life and there's only death beside him before the next inhale shakes him out of it with a sigh.

 

There are things real and unreal in this world he has found himself in, and all of them are drowning him every night.

 

He is quiet a long time. Just listening to each breath, enhanced senses focusing in and in and in until the faint rustle of sound fills up his brain and blocks out thought for blissful moments. There is something reassuring about the human back. Even when a person is utterly relaxed into the deep cradle of REM sleep, the muscles stand out, a sloping landscape of skin. His favorite thing to do was chase the path of a drop of sweat from the tail bone, up to where the vertebrae stick out furthest at the nape of the neck. Sometimes, he is tempted to bite.

 

Ankles and collarbones were nice too of course. In their own way. The angles and shadows created in different lights never failed to capture his attention. He liked long boney feet and hands with slender fingers that played piano and arches that were firmed by hours of dancing barefoot, practicing the newest trend before spinning out in the clubs and bars, dragging Steve along behind him with a laugh. He'd always loved beautiful things and oh, Bucky was that.

 

As a very young boy he once found a robin, newly hatched and lying on the sidewalk. Ants were swarming over it, eating its eyes. The over sized beak had opened and closed in silence.

 

There's a new ache to seeing the scars spraying outwards from Bucky's shoulder like comet trails, silvery and ropey and purple in places like bruises that won't heal. All of Steve's scars are gone.

 

Sometimes he'll press against the plain beige walls of this new apartment, unmarred by bullets, and pretend the paint is parting like stage curtains and letting him in, covering his skin and breathing with him. It's almost like falling back into the space where he was in the ice, the quiet unbroken and undemanding of him for so long.

 

He endures such things because the risk of what endurances may come with out them. The photographs are faded and soft from all the handling, but he cards through them anyway, reminding himself of the memories, telling himself the stories they've become so he never forgets.

 

* * *

 

_Kaleidoscope: Observer of beautiful shapes. Like looking at a stained class window that you can break and break without fear of being laid bare by the shards._

 

* * *

 

All these things are real: Tapirs, warthogs, bananas, tree frogs, bell bottoms, Beatles, money, and dragons.

 

He is always running. Not towards something, but rather away from everything. What is perfection is to be running through the city in the morning when the park paths are as empty as they ever get. His feet pounding and breath pluming through the air and he can imagine for a moment that if he just runs fast enough he can catch that thing he's always chasing or take flight and run straight up and into the clouds, on forever into a sky just kissed by a rosy dawn.

 

He feels like a tethered balloon. He can smell his own skin and his back teeth feel like they are grinding against bone and that's on a good day. A day without missions, or with just enough of a mission to get the blood flowing and let him forget for a moment where he is and why and all the people he doesn't know in a city grown so unfamiliar.

 

* * *

 

All of these things are real: Bayonets, trumpets, guitars, monkeys, fear, children, and deerstalkers.

 

He tries to tell himself that dreams don't mean anything, but after the third night of waking up screaming and sweating into his sheets, he has to admit that he is starting to doubt.

 

He likes books. Not necessarily to read them, thought the shape of the letters can be nice enough to look at. But the best bit of books was breaking the spine.

 

* * *

 

 _All_ of these things are real.

 

* * *

 

He likes to be alone to draw. Liked it at least. The others would try and pull him out, out into the world to live in it just as much as he saves it over and over and over...but he hated that. Hates it. Hates them sometimes and then nearly drowns in the guilt. All they've given him, all Bucky has over come to be here with him. _He should be grateful_.

 

The events of the dream begin as every day life. He might be at the store or in the gym at the Tower. And then bright orange pinpricks appear, growing larger and larger until gaping holes, edged with grey, would be burnt in the world.

 

It was like living in a paper lantern in a world on fire.

 

“Don't you understand that I hate you?” The mirror never does reply to his questions. Have his eyes always been that blue? He doesn't think so but it's hard to remember. That's not a story he tells.

 

He loves him, loves Bucky more now than ever and even as he hates him and this world that he can't adjust to, he'll paint up a smile and a laugh and everything is fake. It's so fake but he loves him and he will carry on like the soldier he was made to be and never once complain.

 

He sits in bed, listening to Bucky breathe, tracing shadows with his eyes across the scarred expanse of bare skin. He flexes his hands, sighs, and blinks slowly, ignoring for now the warning glow of orange in the corner of his eye.

 

All of these things are real.

 

 

 


End file.
